


PREMONITIONS, or, Adventures Adjacent to a Six-Year-Old Seer

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Series: PREMONITIONS [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Steve Rogers is there too... for a bit, featuring: banter and snark!, featuring: first-hand embarrassment!, featuring: swearing in front of a child!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: On Halloween, your clairvoyant niece leads you straight into Bucky Barnes. It could not have gone worse.





	1. Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (month of) Halloween! This is my contribution for Kari’s (@until-theend-oftheline) Marvelous Halloween Challenge over on Tumblr. My prompt was ‘costumes.’ The challenge covers this first part of a multi-chapter story, which I will try to finish posting by the end of the month!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155765884@N08/44991462272/in/dateposted-public/)

“Uh oh,” Gemma says. At six-years-old-plus-just-one-week, your niece’s voice still chirps high and sweet, but you can tell there’s something wrong.

“What’s the matter, cutie?” you ask, kneeling next to her on the sidewalk.

Gemma screws up her face and adjusts her Captain America mask over her eyes to better see you in the light of the streetlamp overhead. Her round trick-or-treat bag is shaped and colored like the superhero’s famous shield, and her tiny uniform is bright blue even behind your dark goggles. It’s all you can do to keep from smiling—but then there’s that nagging in your gut at her confused expression.

“I dunno,” Gemma says. “But I think it’s over there.” She spins around, bag swinging, and marches off down the street.

You spring back up and follow closely. Gemma always had a knack for knowing where to go—or at the very least, she was damn bossy and it always seemed to work out okay. Even her parents had to admit she was right more often than was good for her. You sometimes wondered about her ego, but if she didn’t have one of her little schemes in mind, she was perfectly reasonable for her age.

Something wrong on Halloween, though…

You’ve never been a big fan of holiday shenanigans. Fireworks are underwhelming, turkey isn’t half as good as chicken, and Halloween is just a mess. It’s not even seven thirty, but you’ve already picked up more candy wrappers off the street than you can count. And Gemma had tired out earlier, leaving you to carry her for an ungodly period of time. Fortunately, she’s got her energy back, so you don’t have to carry her anymore.

The best neighborhoods yielded their fruit, and Gemma’s bedtime is creeping up on you. You were en route to your brother Matt’s place before Gemma got her latest idea. At least she’s still headed in roughly the right direction.

When you turn onto the main street, you grab Gemma’s free hand. Your plan had been to stick to side streets, but Gemma has other ideas. It’s no strain to keep up with her brisk pace. She’s walking fast, but she’s tiny for her age.

Fallen leaves crunch underfoot. Halloween might be a pain, but autumn? Autumn is good.

“Oh! I know.” Gemma jumps happily.

You come to a stop in front of a closed real estate office. “Oh? What is it?”

“It’s a bang bang.”

“A _bang bang?_ ” It’s your turn to screw up your face. What the hell does _bang bang_ mean?

“Up there,” Gemma says, pointing.

You follow the line of her tiny finger and swivel your head to stare up and across the street. Your goggles are too dark to see above the light of the streetlamps; you push them up into your straightened hair and squint up at a shadowed rooftop. The sky is dark, but you can just barely make out the shape of a person up there.

“It’s just someone…” You trail off, eyes still trained upwards. They’ve hefted something up, something long and skinny held perpendicular to their spine. Your heart stops; is that a _rifle?_

“Bang bang,” Gemma repeats.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. You pick Gemma up instinctively and look back up, shielding your niece with your body. Where are they aiming?

_Please, god, not for us. Not for Gemma…_

But the barrel is focused north of you. You turn to stare down the street.

Your stomach drops, and you start to run north. Gemma’s bag of candy bounces noisily against your back, her feet against your thighs.

Gemma had insisted that you dress up to match her. Not like Captain America, but his friend from the war. She hadn’t insisted on a specific costume, but it seemed easiest to get a black leather jacket, goggles, and a silver glove; you already had black jeans and black ankle boots fit for kicking in doors.

You didn’t get the point before, but as your feet pound the pavement, you see it now.

You see _him_ now.

You bend just long enough to set Gemma down a few buildings away from the target—she cries out in protest when she tumbles to the ground—and you keep running. The target is looking at his phone, a gallon of milk held in his other hand. You barely note that he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, of all things, over a long-sleeved tee that hides his arm.

“Sergeant Barnes, get down!” you call.

The Winter Soldier glances up, sees you, freezes. You don’t stop running, and in another second you barrel into him with all your might. He grunts and stumbles back. A buzzing sound whizzes by you as he topples back. Your eyes widen as you fall—did a hot poker just go in your hip?

Shock floods you as you land heavily on top of Bucky Barnes. Your head falls forward; the sidewalk is rough against your forehead. He grunts and grabs your upper arms to push you up enough to see your face.

“What the hell?” he says. His blue eyes are wide.

“Bang bang,” you pant. You wince and put a hand by his ear to prop yourself up. A hot, wet wave passes through your left hip. To your left, you see a burst-open gallon of milk. “Ugh, I’m so sorry. I think someone meant to shoot you. Maybe?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and in between breaths you realize that you are quite literally lying down on top of the Winter Soldier.

You are lying down on top of the Winter Soldier _while dressed as the Winter Soldier_.

Heat floods your cheeks. Your hips are on his; one of his legs is caught between yours, his thigh pressed tight against your groin. Oh god, really? Of all the times to finally get some action, it had to be now? With this guy? He might be a superhero, he might be oddly gorgeous despite the surprise on his face (gosh, those _lips!_ ), but you literally just ran into him and knocked him to the ground.

And so much for getting Gemma home on time. You’re barely two blocks away from Matt’s place, but nope.

The thought of your niece jerks you into action. You push yourself up and sit back on your heels, but a stinging in your hip makes you pause, still straddling his leg. “Gemma?” you call.

“What?” Gemma is almost next to you already. You tug her in close and breathe in deeply. Your hip still feels oddly warm and wet.

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

“Uh-huh.” Gemma wriggles away. “It’s okay now.” She finally notices the man you’re sitting on and gasps in excitement. “Look!”

You wince. “Yes, I saw.”

Bucky Barnes shifts back and sits up. His face is guarded now, but his eyes are still that steel blue.

“What the hell,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. “Where’s the bullet?”

“What bullet?” you ask, frowning.

“There was a gunshot,” he said.

“Bang bang,” Gemma said unhelpfully.

“Not now, Gemma,” you scold. Another wave passes through your hip—oh. A gunshot. A bullet. You reach back; your silver glove comes back red and shining. “Oh, huh. Shit.” You glance at Gemma and quickly stuff your hand in your pocket. She’s looking elsewhere; thank god. A few people have started to cluster around you, and you meet the eyes of the middle-aged woman closest to you. “Could you call 911?” you ask. Her eyes widen.

“I’m on it,” someone else said. A teenager; good. He’s got a smartphone. He turns away and starts rattling off the situation and location.

“Es el Captain America!” someone exclaims.

“Gemma, stay here,” you order instinctively. You reach out with your clean hand and drag her into your lap. The last thing you need right now is for Gemma to run off. She wriggles until you squeeze her tighter, then she slumps back into your hold with a huff.

You’re still sitting on Bucky’s leg, but with the realization that you’ve been shot, you’re afraid to move.

“I’m sorry we’re squashing you,” you tell him. “I, uh, don’t really want to move.”

“Fair,” he answers. His gaze has softened. He reaches out, then pauses. “I’m going to put pressure on that.”

“She’ll be okay,” Gemma announces.

“I wish I had her optimism,” you grumble to Bucky, but you can’t help but grin a little.

His eyes light up. “You seem to be doing okay.” He puts a hand on your hip and presses tight.

There’s a sharp, searing pain now that wasn’t there before. Your eyes widen in shock; you clench your teeth hard against the agony and pull your bloody hand out of the tiny pocket so you can clench it into a fist.

“Nevermind,” Bucky mutters. “Shit.”

“Buck!”

Steve Rogers skids to a halt beside you, his spangled shield on his arm.

“Hey man,” Bucky says. He doesn’t look away from you, and you slowly manage to recreate a normal expression. “Sniper tried to shoot me. The usual.”

“The usual?” you gasp. “Fucking hell.”

Steve glances between you, Gemma, and Bucky, his long face screwed up in confusion. You can’t quite blame him—you hadn’t sworn this much in front of Gemma since before she could talk. And there was the matter of your costumes, too.

“They got her instead,” Bucky adds.

That gets Steve’s full attention. He crouches beside you and puts a large hand on your shoulder. His eyes flit from your face to the bloody silver glove held away from your niece. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” you sputter. You cough and glance at Bucky. The pressure on your hip is still worse than you’d expected, but his thumb is rubbing little circles on your back. It’s a sweet little distraction, enough to make you feel comfortable addressing your next comment to him and not Steve. “Insult to injury. Literally.”

Bucky’s eyebrows fly up. His eyes crinkle with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. Your breath catches.

“Sorry,” Steve says, and you jolt in surprise. You’d almost forgotten him, crazy as that seems. “Are you okay?”

“According to my niece—” you squeeze Gemma with your right arm— “I’ll live.” You can’t see Gemma’s face, but you can imagine the absolute amazement there. The design on her candy bag is echoed large and more than real in the shield propped next to you.

“I’m sure you’re right, captain,” Steve says to Gemma. He speaks seriously, without the condescension of most grown men. Steve looks back at you, a question in his eyes that you aren’t sure you can answer.

“She should be okay,” Bucky says. “Not too much lost.”

“She’ll be fiiiiine,” Gemma trills. “I know it.” She bounces happily on your lap. The jolting is uncomfortable in the best of circumstances. This… isn’t the best of circumstances.

“Can you keep still, sweetie?” you whimper.

“Come here, Gemma,” Bucky says. He holds out his free arm—his metal arm, incidentally—to Gemma, and she jumps up at once to lean against his shoulder. Bucky puts his arm around her and squeezes her arm. “Your aunt is very brave,” he tells her. He doesn’t look at you, but your cheeks warm all the same.

“I know,” Gemma said. She stacks her feet one on top of the other and props herself on Bucky’s shoulder, tracing the clashing red and green hibiscus against the blue background of his shirt with one skinny finger. “She’s the best. I told her where to go and she did it.”

“You told her where to go?” Steve asks.

“She’s got good instincts,” you interrupt, glancing at the crowd jostling around you. No one had come too close, but you’ve had a realization, and with it comes a sudden sharp fear.

How _had_ Gemma known? This was nothing like her usual little stubborn schemes, where something little went well—a parking spot opening up, perfect weather in the park, meeting a friend by going the long way home. This was big. This was scary. And this was way out of a six-year-old’s league.

“I saw the guy on the roof, and I saw the gun, and I ran for it,” you continue.

“You didn’t run for it, you ran _to me_.” Bucky’s thumb stills against your back. “Why?”

You blink. Isn’t it obvious? “Because people should know to duck when they’re being aimed at?”

Bucky blows out a breath between his teeth. He opens his mouth, but the shrill horn of a siren cuts through the noise before he can speak. Blue and red lights cast eerie shadows as the crowd parts to clear a path for the approaching ambulance.

“Where’s Mom?” Gemma asks.

“Shit,” you answer. You fumble for your phone in the pocket of your leather jacket. Blood from your glove smears on the screen, and it’s an effort to tap the right icon to call your sister-in-law. The bright lights are wreaking havoc with your vision, and the siren cuts through your skull like a knife.

“Let me,” Steve says. You pass the phone to him wordlessly, and he speaks in even tones to Gemma’s mom.

You sigh and close your eyes. Your head droops forward, and before you know it your forehead is pressed against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey, stay awake,” he says.

You open your eyes—yikes, his shirt is horrifically bright—and suck in a shuddering breath. There’s a vague smell, one you can’t identify, but it’s too heady to be detergent. Maybe you are passing out. A small hand pats your head, and a little smile flashes on your concealed face. Sweet Gemma.

The dampness on your glove seeps through. The feel of blood on your fingers makes you shudder against Bucky’s shoulder, and he turns his head to whisper soothing reassurances in your ear.

Finally, the ambulance and siren stop. EMTs come with their stretcher. The transfer from sitting on Bucky’s leg to lying face-down on the stretcher is less painful than the insane pressure of the bandage they tape down. You turn your head to look up at Bucky. Gemma has somehow gotten picked up and has her legs wrapped around Bucky’s waist.

“You okay, sweetie?” you ask her. Bucky’s wiping his bloody hand on his jeans out of Gemma’s sight.

“Mm-hm.” She nods sharply. “Captain America saves the day.”

The EMTs begin wheeling you away, and you see your brother and sister-in-law pushing frantically through the crowd. “Gemma! Gemma!” her mom cries.

“There’s Mom and Dad!” Gemma wriggles in Bucky’s grip, and he’s forced to put her down and jog after her towards her mom. Matt runs straight to you, Dracula cape flapping behind him.

“Shit, are you okay?” he gasps, panting for breath.

“Gemma says I should be,” you tell him. You crane your head to look past him; Bucky and Steve are now both talking to your sister-in-law Sarah, who has Gemma cradled in her arms. Bucky glances back to you. You shoot him a little smile, but then the EMTs start to roll you away and the cluster of bystanders blocks your view.

Of all the pains of the last fifteen minutes, the pang of losing sight of Bucky is perhaps the worst.

Matt holds tight to your hand and climbs into the ambulance with you. The siren starts up again, and you’re driving away from the street, away from the crowd, away from Gemma.

Away from Bucky.


	2. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now you're in the hospital, which is great, but what's worse is that your phone has gone missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy sixth birthday to my real-life niece :3 Hope you enjoy!

By some miracle, the damage to your body is minimal. The bullet hadn’t hit your hip, but your extreme lower back. Which is different, apparently. No vital organs hit, no major blood vessels ruptured, the whole jazz. It all makes much more sense to your brother, what with his physical therapy background. It just sounds like jargon to you.

Whatever the case, the surgeon is optimistic about your recovery. Antibiotics, rest, PT. Right now, you’re busy with the first two. The anesthesia hasn’t quite worn off from surgery. Matt is still with you, though he’s dozing a little in the chair by your hospital bed. His light snores are endearing, but more importantly, it gives you time to think.

You weren’t surprised at the doctor’s prognosis. There wasn’t a single thing that surprised you, though the doctor herself had been shocked at your luck.

It was Gemma. Gemma had known. _“She’ll be fiiiiine.”_ Hell, she’d known just where to go to prevent the death of one of her favorite superheroes. She’d pointed right up at the roof. _“Bang bang!”_ The thought of her cute little voice makes you smile, but behind the childish tones there’s an uncomfortable truth. You cross your arms and shudder.

Your niece is a frigging _psychic._

Okay, so she could see the future. Parts of it, at least. It wasn’t like she never did stupid things. She’d sprained her wrist before, fallen off her bike. Last night she’d been surprised to see the Winter Soldier lying down on the sidewalk, one of his legs trapped between yours. The memory triggers a flush, and you fan your face to lessen the heat in your cheeks. You push away the thought of his bright eyes staring up at you, his crinkling smile, his gentle hand on your back.

Your brother is snoozing just a few feet away. Now isn’t the time.

Could Gemma read minds too? Could she sense feelings or intentions? Could she tell fortunes? The image of your tiny niece reading palms makes you grin; you huff in amusement.

The noise jerks your brother awake. “Huh?”

“Nothing, Matt,” you say automatically.

Matt blinks owlishly. “How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess.” You wiggle your toes under the sheets. You’ve been stripped from your Winter Soldier costume. Your hospital gown is almost as garish as the Hawaiian shirt the real Winter Soldier wore last night. Matt’s cape is slung across the back of his chair. If you’d had a choice, you would have preferred your bloodstained black tank top over the ridiculous florals you’re stuck with.

“I still can’t believe you thought it was a good idea to tackle the Winter Soldier,” Matt mutters. You bristle.

“I wasn’t thinking that far in advance, _Matthew_. Of course it wasn’t a ‘good idea’—” you make little quotes in the air with your fingers— “but it was the right thing to do!”

“You could’ve been killed!” Matt frowns and crosses his arms. “ _Gemma_ could have been killed.”

A chill passes through you. You hadn’t thought of it like that, but Matt’s not wrong. You’d dropped Gemma some distance from the collision, but anything could have happened to her. You hadn’t been thinking, not really.

“He would’ve been fine,” Matt continues. “Presumably.”

Oh no. Yes, protecting Gemma was a priority. But making excuses about why you shouldn’t try and help someone just because they might be okay was too much even for you.

“Listen, Matt, next time you have the chance to save a superhero I’ll be glad to have a moral debate. In the meantime…” You glance at the closed door and the empty bed to your right. “Listen, we need to talk about Gemma.”

“Yes we sure do.” Matt scrubs his hands over his face. “How much did she see?”

“Huh? Oh.” You think back. Between your black outfit, stuffing your glove in your pocket, and Bucky’s care to hide his own bloody hand from Gemma’s sight, there really hadn’t been that much to see. “Honestly? I don’t know if she saw anything beside me tackling the guy to the ground. She seemed in pretty good spirits.”

“Well thank god for that,” Matt mutters. “Still, I think you should expect not to take Gemma out on your own for a good long while.”

Your heart drops. “What?!”

“I talked to Sarah while you were in surgery,” Matt says. “It’s not like you can’t see her. We just don’t want you going anywhere alone with her. One of us can go with you.”

“That’s…” Your mind races. You love spending time with Gemma. A trip to the park, a short hike, a visit to a bookstore—you’re the cool aunt! How could you be a cool aunt if you couldn’t hang out with her on your own?

Matt winces at your crestfallen expression. “Look, you’re going to be on a pretty limited regimen for a while,” he says. “Playgrounds are going to be off-limits anyway. You won’t want to be alone with Gem, really. You know how she loves to climb all over people.”

“Sure, but I could handle it,” you say. You press a hand to your abdomen. “It’s not so bad.”

“You’re still full of anesthesia, you dweeb,” Matt snorts. “Give it another few hours and see how you’re doing.” He stands up and stretches. “I think you should get some sleep. I’ll send your love to Sarah and Gemma.”

“Wait,” you blurt. “We need to talk about Gemma!”

Matt gives you some impressive side-eye and folds his cape over his arm. “We just did.”

“Not about that,” you snap. “About how she knows shit she shouldn’t.”

“You weren’t swearing in front of her again, were you?”

You flush and cross your arms tight. “Maybe, but there were extenuating circumstances. Listen, though. Gemma knew exactly where to go to find Bucky. She—”

“Come on, you know Gemma’s always been lucky.”

Blood rushes in your ears. Why wouldn’t he just listen? “She led me straight to where I needed to be to stop the guy from getting killed,” you say. “It wasn’t just luck.”

“You’re in shock,” Matt says, not unkindly. “We all know Gemma’s the luckiest kid in town. Besides, she’s six.”

“She _knew_ ,” you insist, but Matt’s already shaking his head.

“Get some rest,” he tells you. “I’ll see you soon.” He presses a kiss to your forehead and leaves.

You grab the remote from the bedside table and shut off the lights, fuming. If Matt wants to ignore the facts, you’ll just have to figure out the truth on your own.

 

* * *

 

“So does Sarah have my phone?” you ask Matt the next day. He’s come back to visit again, this time minus the Dracula cape. He’s brought some clothes from Sarah, who’s about your size. You’d wasted no time in getting out of the horrible hospital gown. You didn’t feel great, but damn it if you were going to look like a loon for any longer.

“No,” he says, eyebrows raised. “Why? Didn’t Captain America give it back?”

“Apparently not,” you say. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “I need to get in touch with work.”

“Well, good thing it’s only Sunday,” Matt says. “You can use my phone if you like.” He unlocks his phone and passes it over. “Not sure how you’re gonna get yours back, though…”

“Maybe I’ll get a hospital visit from him.” You bare your teeth in a facsimile smile, already busy with your brother’s phone. Typical—you save Captain America’s best friend and get a bullet in the side, and in exchange for all your trouble, your phone goes missing. As if you weren’t already concerned about the hospital bill.

“Try calling your phone,” Matt suggests. He pops to his feet. “I’m going to get a coffee, want anything?”

“Black with two sugars, please.” You wait until he’s gone and your email to work is sent to try calling your phone. It rings twice, and then someone picks up.

“Yeah?”

Your heart skips a beat. That voice—that’s Bucky! “Hello?”

“Oh, it’s you,” Bucky says. “You’re alive.”

“So they tell me.”

Bucky snorts. “You probably want this phone back, huh?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. You twist your free hand in the sheets. “Might come in useful.”

“I can bring it later,” he offers. “Where are you?”

You rattle off the hospital and room number. If your heart is pounding, you ignore it.

 

* * *

 

Matt leaves within the hour, and if you’re being honest, you were ready to shove him out the door half an hour ago. You do _not_ need your judgy, overprotective brother around when you make your apologies to Bucky Barnes. Sure, you might have saved his life, but you also destroyed his milk.

And you hadn’t had the chance to explain your costume yet.

You groan. You can’t believe you listened to Gemma—letting a six-year-old decide your costume? Even after she’d declared her intention to go as Captain America, you’d been pumped to go as the Scarlet Witch, what with her sweet red coat and her glowing red eyes. You’d been clicks away from buying red contacts before Matt had called with Gemma’s request. Request? No, an order, more like. There was no arguing with Gemma. Even now, barely sitting upright in the hospital, you could imagine her climbing over you and insisting things be _just so_ right in your face.

Why had Gemma insisted? The costume hadn’t offered any sort of protection. Worn leather wasn’t exactly a substitute for, say, an actual bulletproof vest. All it had done, presumably, was make Bucky stop short at the sight of you barreling towards him like a crazy person.

Oh god.

You bury your face in your hands, cheeks burning. You still can’t believe you’d ended up sprawled on top of him. You practically were grinding his damn thigh. Well, no, it wasn’t a damn thigh. It was a damn _good_ thigh. All muscle—

“Ugh,” you groan, pressing your legs together. Now was _not_ the time.

“If I’d known I was getting such a nice welcome, I would’ve come sooner.”

Your eyes pop open and you stare at Bucky in horror. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a half-hearted smirk on his face and a bouquet of white calla lilies in his metal hand. You blink. Did he know they were your favorite?

Bucky glances down at the flowers. “Your sister said you liked these,” he said. He slides into the chair by your side and holds the bouquet out. “Figured I’d bring some by.”

“They’re beautiful,” you tell him. You take the lilies and bury your nose in them with a deep, satisfied sigh. When you glance up, your heart skips a beat at Bucky’s tiny smile. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Dammit, that was supposed to be my line.” He sighs and tosses your phone onto the bed. “Thank you for saving my ass.”

“Um.” Your eyes flit to his hips, then back to his face. “The goal was to save all of you.”

He snorts. “Thank you for saving _me_.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” You arrange the bouquet in your arms like a baby; you even smile down at it fondly, as though the flowers are gazing up at you.

“So how did you end up dressed up as me for Halloween?” he asks nonchalantly.

You wheeze, your inhale turning to a sputtering cough. Bucky leans forward and puts a hand on your back as you lean over the flowers, tears pricking your eyes as you recover. His hand is large and warm; you can’t help but remember how he’d caressed you last night, his thumb brushing along your spine. He pulls back as soon as your breathing is back to normal.

“Sorry,” you manage. You shut your eyes and take a deep breath before looking back at Bucky with pink cheeks. “I, um, it was Gemma. She insisted.”

“Your niece? Huh.” Bucky leans forward, elbows on his knees and fingers twisted together. He’s frowning.

“She’s pretty demanding,” you admit. You hope that’s enough, but—

“And she’s the one who told you where to go.”

Your heart drops. The flowers rustle in your arms as you clench your fists against your stomach. Why had Gemma said anything? Why did she have to be so damn young, so damn chatty?

“She just wanted to walk down Main Street. She didn’t—she’s not—”

“She’s special.” Bucky’s tone brokered no argument. “She’s special, and her parents don’t know.”

Your mouth dropped open. “How do you know that?”

“Because they dismissed her,” he explained. “She kept saying you’d be fine. _You_ listened. Her mom didn’t. I bet her dad didn’t either.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I did try to explain,” you say. Your hands uncurl; you spread one on your thigh and the other over your abdomen, the bouquet still angled between your arms. You didn’t expect him to be so observant. The brawn didn’t surprise you. The brain… “Matt just brushed me off. Said I was in shock, or something. They just think she’s lucky, but there’s no way in hell ‘lucky’ explains what happened last night.”

Bucky’s gaze trails from your face to your hands to the flowers tucked against your chest. “No it doesn’t,” he agrees. “Did she know there would be a gun?”

“I mean, she’s six. She said ‘bang bang.’ I extrapolated from there once I saw the guy on the roof.”

“Huh.” Bucky twiddles his thumbs between his thighs. “So not necessarily all about the details, huh.”

“She was surprised to see you,” you tell him. “Even though she dragged me to the right street and forced me into wearing that costume.” Bucky’s lips twitch; will you ever live that down? “Gemma has… intuition, not information. Although come on, she’s six.”

“Brain development, et cetera,” Bucky finishes. He blows out a breath and runs a hand over his mouth and chin, catching his bottom lip between his fingers as he considers what you’ve said. It’s distracting, to say the least—his mouth might be the most alluring part of him, at least that you’ve seen.

He lets go of his lower lip with a tiny pop. You drag your eyes back up to his, trying to mask your embarrassment. You’re on a bucketload of meds right now; let that be your excuse.

“So how did your niece get these flashes of intuition anyway? Her parents are normal, yeah?”

“I’ve got no idea.” You shift the flowers in your arms; you really need a vase. “Would it be silly to just assume luck?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s looking away and frowning. Your hands twitch; you’d give anything to smooth the lines on his face away. When he finally turns back, his solemn expression makes your breath catch.

“Your niece isn’t safe. I need to tell—”

“No! Don’t tell anyone about Gemma,” you blurt. Your fingers dig painfully into your skin. “Please.”

He sighs. “If whoever came after me finds out…”

“She’s just a kid! No one pays attention to little kids.”

“That’s not true.” Bucky’s voice drops, but there’s an intensity in his blue eyes that makes you shift back with wide eyes. “Whoever tried to shoot me yesterday isn’t going to be happy you got in the way.”

“I _got in the way?_ ” You gape at Bucky. “I’m sorry, but I don’t regret a damn thing!”

“Woah, calm down, hotshot,” he says, eyes wide, a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not complaining. But you’re probably about to get caught in some more crosshairs. And your family’s part of that. You should know what you got yourself into.”

“Oh.” You slump back and sigh. “Well, I guess I _should_ blame Gemma, huh?”

Bucky laughs; the sound is warm and happy. Your toes curl in pleasure. His nose scrunched up is so damn _cute_. “I won’t stop you. But I’d thank her, personally.” His eyes twinkle at you—twinkle! at you!—and you can’t help but smile back.

“I did get some nice flowers out of it,” you quip.

“Nice? Surely you mean beautiful,” he says. He reaches out to brush his hand over the flowers, but he’s looking at you, just you. Your breath catches in your throat. You can’t look away.

“I…”

A nurse pokes his head in. “Hey, just a head’s up that visiting hours end in like, five minutes, guys.” His does a double-take when he sees Bucky. “Oh man! Uh, sorry.” He backs away and leaves.

Bucky winces and stands up. “Listen. I can’t not mention that you’ve got a superpowered niece. If I don’t and something happens to her… I’ll keep it to Steve, okay? You gotta trust him, he’s Captain America.”

“Oh.” You think this over for a moment, then nod. “Fine. But don’t go bugging my family. You have questions, you only get to bother me.”

“Am I a bother?” he asks, a slow smirk spreading on his face as he looks down at you. “I brought you those nice flowers and everything.”

“Don’t push it,” you say with a giggle, then you wince and press a hand to your bandaged wound. The painkillers are wearing off. “I have yet to reach a conclusion.”

Bucky leans over the side of the bed. His face comes alarmingly close to yours, then he ducks to kiss your cheek. His stubble scrapes along your skin, and you bite your tongue hard to keep quiet.

“Get well soon,” he murmurs. “And be safe.”

He leaves with one parting smile.

You don’t see him again for over three months.


	3. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day is for suckers. Maybe someone will split the lovebug special with you anyway.

You shove your hands deeper in your coat pockets and glower at the shiny red heart balloons tied to the sandwich board outside the cafe. They were advertising a lovebug special—two medium coffees and two heart-shaped cookies at an unfair discount. Two cookies would be nice, but buying two coffees for yourself was beyond even you. You hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and your Sunday coffee habit had become a daily necessity. The line, meanwhile, is going at a snail’s pace. If it doesn’t speed up, you’ll have to rely on the crap they offer at work.

You give up after another few minutes and duck out of line with an aggrieved huff. The people behind you shuffle forward, ever vigilant to keep their spot.

One day you’ll get yourself a coffee maker. This is getting ridiculous. And expensive.

Your visit to the hospital back around Halloween had, by some miracle, been covered by insurance. Mostly. But between the deductible and the copays on physical therapy, you’d gone through your holiday bonus in no time at all. Back before shit hit the fan, you’d been dreaming of a cabin in the woods, a fireplace, s’mores. Books and blankets too. But a cozy getaway would have to wait for you to earn back your vacation time.

In the meantime, all you could do was stifle a yawn as you headed into work. You were over a month into tax season, and your department was already in a fine frenzy. There had been some mishaps last spring—a few managers had been fired—and now you and your coworkers were paying the price. Your manager ambushes even before you can sneak to the kitchen for coffee.

The whole day is like that. You jump from one urgent task to another until your eyelids feel like sandpaper.

The only good thing that happens is that you get out early enough to beat most of the dinner crowd at the cafe.

The sign for the damn couple’s special is horribly tempting. Sugar sounds amazing right now… And it _is_ a good deal. Maybe you could share it!

You turn impulsively to the person behind you. “Wanna split the—”

Your jaw drops. Behind you is none other than Bucky Barnes.

“You!” you sputter.

“Nice to see you too.” Bucky’s tilted grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. You step out of line, too bewildered to even contemplate ordering a drink.

“Saw you ducking in, thought I’d say hi,” he says. “I just got back.”

“Back from _where?_ ”

Bucky shrugs. There’s a stray bit of hair that’s escaped from his bun; he brushes it impatiently back. “Just… away. You look good.”

You blink and glance down. Your pea coat is hardly the most flattering thing you own. “Uh, thanks.”

“I mean, considering you got shot.” At that, the little grin on Bucky’s face sneaks up into his crinkling eyes.

“Oh, that.” You tilt your head with a smirk of your own. “Better or worse than Halloween?”

Bucky’s rich laugh fills you with delight. “I’d have to think about that,” he says. He tilts his head and studies you. “The lighting wasn’t this good, but the black looked nice.”

“Wow,” you deadpan, hand over your heart. “One might swoon.” You bite your lip in an effort to keep a straight face, but Bucky’s eyes are sparkling and you can’t help but break into a giggle.

“So,” he says once you’ve composed yourself, “how’s the small one?” He puts a hand out at roughly Gemma’s height and gives you a significant look.

Your heart drops. Gemma. Right. This isn’t about you. You step back and stuff your hands into your pockets. “Oh, she’s fine. Nothing ever happened—but you must already know that.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. There’s a slight furrow in his brow. “But she’s a cute kid. I was wondering how she was doing. Being like that is… not always fun.”

“She is very cute.” You rock back on your heels and worry the inside of your cheek. “I mean… she seems normal. I don’t think she gets it, you know? And that’s… yeah.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath between his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah.”

You look at each other, not saying another word. There’s no need. You know Bucky understands the enormity of the situation. A child, barely more than a toddler—practically still the _size_ of a toddler—with powers they didn’t understand, let alone realize they have? How could it possibly end well?

“Well, she’s got you,” Bucky says at last.

“Yes she does,” you answer fiercely. Sharp affection cuts into you, and you look away to keep Bucky from seeing the sudden tears in your eyes. Your gaze lands on the bakery case. The heart-shaped cookies are prominent in the display. “Man I could use some sugar.”

Bucky snorts. Whoops—you hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“What, I’m not sweet enough for ya? Here,” he says, and he guides you to the register and looks at you expectantly.

You blink at him, then at the disinterested cashier. “Oh, uh, a medium coffee. And hell, one of those heart cookies, please.”

“Double that.” Bucky pulls out his wallet before you even think to reach into your purse. “I got it,” he tells you.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you murmur, bumping his shoulder with yours.

You try to look nonchalant when the cashier reads back the order as the lovebug special, but your face is warm. You do _not_ glance at Bucky, though you can feel his eyes on your face. Sure, fine, he’s gorgeous and sarcastic and smart, but all the banter is just set dressing. The real reason he’s talking to you is Gemma.

Ugh. You screw up your mouth and look away. Gemma’s the only reason you encountered Bucky Barnes at all. Resenting a six-year old is a really, really bad look, but now that you’ve spent time with Bucky, you wish you’d met under different circumstances. No guns, no psychics, no children. Just two consenting adults.

And while you’re dreaming, might as well hope for some goddamned privacy.

“Here you go,” Bucky says. He holds out your coffee and cookie, already taking a bite of his own. They’ve given him a blue-frosted cookie, but the frosting isn’t half so bright as his eyes.

“Thanks.” You take his offering and turn away before he sees the flush in your cheeks. You have _got_ to get control of yourself. No one’s eyes should be that distracting.

You step outside and take a bracing breath. It’s cold after the cozy cocoon of the cafe. At least the paper cup in your hand is hot against your skin.

“Don’t you have gloves?” Bucky asks.

“They’re in my other coat.” You take a scalding sip and wince. The liquid burns your throat, but warmth sweeps through you as the caffeine settles.

You glance at Bucky, who’s frowning down at his own hands and plucking at his gloves.

“Oh my god, Bucky, I’m fine,” you blurt. “Keep your gloves!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky blinks, pauses, and studies you warily as he takes a quick sip. “No insult intended.”

After his amusement at your joke about insult and injury back in October; you feel confident that he doesn’t mean any harm now. Still, you can’t help a little retaliatory snark. “All good, Sergeant.”

His eyes narrow on you. You keep your expression vague and pleasant until you can’t help a giggle from escaping. Bucky relaxes and edges closer as a clump of people pass by.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

“You too,” you reply.

“Nice to see you fully upright, too,” he adds, and you swat his shoulder with a roll of your eyes.

“Just for that I’m going to flatten you again next time,” you joke.

“Well,” Bucky says, eyes twinkling, “I can think of worse fates. See you around, _ma’am_.” He shoots you one final breathtaking smile and ambles off, leaving you speechless in his wake.

“God I hope so,” you whisper.

He disappears from view before it occurs to you that you should have just asked the guy out. Now you might have to deal with three _more_ months without seeing him again. No banter, no blue eyes, no sexy smirks. No lovebug special.

You head for home, fuming at your temporarily loss of brain functioning. Typical—he distracts you so much you can’t even get yourself to make sure you would see each other before the summertime, if at all. Of course, maybe come summertime you’d see him at the beach, in a bathing suit…

You flush and bite your tongue to contain your grin. Now there’s a sight you’d be glad to see.

God willing, one day you would.


	4. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March is everyone's least favorite month. Maybe with some help, that could change.

March is everyone’s least favorite month. Between the terror of tax season, the endless full weeks without a hint of respite, and the bleak weather, finding some scrap of joy is like squeezing juice out of a shriveled lemon.

It’s impossible, and if you actually manage to succeed, the juice is just gross.

At least you have the weekends. The second Saturday in March, you settle down for a fresh Netflix binge. Another superhero show has debuted, and ever since Halloween you’ve been more and more of a sucker for them. Your feet are up on the coffee table and you’ve just started episode two when your phone rings. It’s Sarah.

“Hi, Sarah, what’s up?”

“Gemma’s in one of her moods,” Sarah says. “She really wants to go to the park with you.”

Your heart skips a beat. Gemma in a mood? That means Gemma with a premonition.

“It’s, like, forty degrees out,” you say, but you’re already turning off the tv and rummaging through your accessories for your scarf and gloves. “And she wants to go outside? My god.”

“I know, and I am so sorry, but you know how she gets. Totally unreasonable.” Sarah sighs; you can just picture her rubbing her temples. “Sometimes I think we must be terrible parents, but honestly going to the park isn’t such a wild request. It’s not like she screams about bedtime or eating her vegetables.”

“She isn’t a screamer,” you point out. Your voice is even, but your heart is thumping faster than a cheetah. “She’s just… stubborn.”

“Very stubborn,” Sarah says, but she says it loudly enough that you can tell she’s saying it to Gemma, too. You can hear your niece giggle.

“Well, don’t worry, Sarah, I can head over. I’ll be there in about half an hour, does that work?”

“Thank you so much,” Sarah gushes. “Gemma will be thrilled.”

Sarah hangs up, and you stuff your phone in your pocket so fast you miss; it falls straight down your leg to the floor, and you swear and snatch it back up. You’re bundled and out the door in another minute, breathing quick as you jog to the train.

Halloween was almost four months ago. There had been the dealings with the police and a very brief interview with your local paper, who had been more interested in the assassin. After you’d finished with them, no one had talked about the incident much. This was New York. One rogue assassin, one bullet in an unimportant woman, was nothing after all the other shit that had gone down. Stuff happened, and everyone moved on. Physically, too, you’d recovered well from your brush with death—you were back to normal in every way.

Except, of course, that now you knew that your six-year old niece had premonitions. And if she was so damn anxious to get to the park today of all days, with snow still on the ground and temperatures only barely above freezing, she must have just had another.

You hold onto a pole for the few metro stops you had between your place and your brother’s. Your gloomy reflection stares back at you from the plastic window.

Gemma’s summons couldn’t be ignored. But the last time she’d been in the driver’s seat, so to speak, you’d ended up with a bullet buried under your skin.

You could only hope that today ended no worse.

 

* * *

 

Gemma clings to your hand and drags her feet as you head outside. You glance down, eyebrows raised.

“Gem, I thought you really wanted to go! What’s up, buttercup?”

“If I go, it’ll be bad,” Gemma says. She’s pouting. “I wanna gooooo.”

You crouch down and adjust Gemma’s hat. “Why would it be bad?”

“I dunno. It will, though. You go. I’ll stay at home.”

“Wha—Gemma!” You gape.

But Gemma’s already pulling at the front door. When it doesn’t budge, she stands on tiptoes to push the doorbell. “Lemme in!”

Sarah opens the door. “What’s going on?”

“I’m staying home,” Gemma announces. She bounces inside, shedding her hat and coat along the way.

“Gem,” Sarah warns, “you just put your aunt very far out of her way—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt. Sarah frowns at you. “Really, it’s fine.”

“Well, why don’t you come in and have something to eat, at least? I’m making mulled cider.”

“Ooooh.” Sarah’s mulled cider is amazing, but you shake your head. “Save some for me, I can do some errands while I’m here.” You leave Sarah to stare after you, bewildered.

As soon as you’re out of sight of the house, you break into a run. So Gemma had wised up! Keep herself out of trouble, send you straight into it. Great. Just great. Like you don’t have enough problems on your own.

Sure, you can ignore Gemma, but who knows what shenanigans are about to happen? Are you about to stop a terrorist from blowing up the city? Are you about to save a group of schoolkids from a bioweapon? It’s a mystery!

You skip around a slow-moving party of women and carriages and turn a sharp corner towards the park, but there’s a wall in the way.

Not a wall. A human being. Scratch that, a superhuman being. Bucky Barnes stumbles, but—thank God—he keeps his footing. You jump back, cheeks flaming. His bulky navy coat does nothing for his figure, but his eyes are bluer than ever.

“Are you okay?” you ask Bucky.

“Well, I didn’t fall over this time,” he answers. He smiles, not in the least upset. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh god.” You glance around, but no one’s listening. “I have to get to the park. Gemma’s got me running errands.”

He blinks. “Errands?”

“You know…” You give him a significant look as you inch towards your destination.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Bucky lets out a breath. “Well, let’s go.”

Your feet still. “You want to come?”

“I think I owe you,” he says seriously, but his next words come with a twinkle in his eye. “Besides, you said you’d flatten me next time we ran into each other. I gotta help you keep your word, right?”

You bite your glove to stifle your giggles as you lead the way to the park, Bucky close by your side. The second you pass through the gate, you look for trouble. The kid-friendly area where you would have taken Gemma is sparsely populated. A couple of preteen girls are sitting on the swings, and there’s a toddler on the playground near the slide just a few yards from the entrance. You look around for an adult, but the closest one is farther away from the child than you are.

The toddler sits down at the top of the slide and wiggles forward. Your eyes pop open and you dart ahead of Bucky—the slide here is crazy fast, and even Gemma sometimes hurts herself coming off of it. The little boy laughs as he flies down, and you dive to your knees to catch him before he can bang his head on the cold ground.

“Hey kiddo,” you say, smile much wider than was genuine. You set him on his feet and keep hold of his hand. “Whose kid is this?” you call.

A woman on a nearby bench glances up from her cell phone and jumps to her feet. “What are you doing? Don’t touch him!”

You let go of the boy’s hand and step back with your hands up, eyebrows raised. “Jesus, I was just catching him from the slide.”

The woman stomps over, her face contorted with fury. Then Bucky steps up next to you, and she freezes.

“Maybe keep an eye on your kid, huh?”

Bucky’s voice is quiet, but it carries more weight than you thought possible. The woman grabs her son and runs straight out of the park. You glance over at him and practically run away yourself—he’s glaring after her, unblinking, with his mouth pressed together in a tight line. He looks every inch the terror. The little boy, looking over his mother’s shoulder, starts to wail. You wince at the shrill sound. Bucky blinks, and his whole demeanor changes, softening into what you’ve grown used to.

“Poor kid,” you murmur.

“He’ll get over it,” Bucky says bracingly. “Little kids are resilient.” He shoots a slanting smile your way.

He means Gemma, too—it’s clear in his smile, his eyes, the way he’s turned towards you. For all that you’re peeved that Gemma’s the only reason Bucky has anything to do with you, you can’t help feeling a rush of affection for him. His interest in Gemma, at least, is genuine. Warm. Real.

God, how you wish he’d smile at you for _you_.

A bark grabs your attention. The preteens from the swings have approached a dog tied to the chain-link fence. You smile; the golden retriever is cute, but after a moment you frown. The dog’s tail is wagging, sure, but its lips are pulled back, baring its teeth, and the fur on the back of its neck is standing on end.

Seriously?!

“Get away from that dog!” you yell.

You shoot Bucky an apologetic smile as you hurry over to the girls, who are staring at you like you’ve sprouted an extra head. One of them has paused with a hand outstretched; the dog starts to growl low in its throat and pull at its leash. “Leave the dog alone, please, I do not want to have to deal with watching you get your fingers bitten off!”

The girls’ faces fall. One of them looks about to cry. They scamper back to the swings, whispering under their breath.

You drag your hands over your face and stare at the dog, who eventually slinks back and collapses against the fence. You’re afraid to turn around. Is there another disaster waiting to happen?

“Wanna sit?”

You jump. You’d forgotten Bucky. Of all people to forget! “Sure, if you think it’s safe,” you joke weakly. He leads the way to a bench with a good view of the whole park, entrance and all.

“So how are you?” Bucky asks as you sit beside him.

“I’m alright, I guess.”

“You guess?” He raises an eyebrow.

You tuck your hands in between your knees and huff in frustration. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” you admit. “Gemma sent me here, but like… was keeping that toddler from cracking his skull open and getting the kids away from that dog enough? Am I supposed to wait here until someone has a bomb?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I think you’re alright at this point.”

“Am I though?” You sigh. Your breath comes out in a little cloud. “This would all be much easier if Gemma knew what was so urgent. Maybe she does, but she just can’t explain? I feel like a secondhand superhero. And it’s really hard to do the right thing when you have no idea what that is.”

“That’s a recurring theme. Remember all the bullshit around the Sokovia Accords?” Bucky raises his eyebrows at you. There’s a hint of apprehension in his face, but you ignore it.

“That’s totally different,” you argue. “From what I understand, that wasn’t a problem of people being uncertain. _That_ was a bunch of people disagreeing. With fists. And guns.”

Bucky snorts, but his expression is distant. “Yeah, fair.”

“I mean,” you say, “Gemma is six. I’m not supposed to be taking orders from her.” To your relief, Bucky pulls out of his reminiscing and actually laughs. The sound goes straight through you, and you twist your fingers together inside your mittens and curl your tongue in your mouth. There’s his crinkling nose again, and the lovely lines around his eyes. God, what a man.

“If you don’t want to leave yet, I can stay with you,” he offers.

“Really?” You can’t help your beaming grin, and Bucky grins back. He props his arm on the back of the bench, his hand inches away from your shoulder.

“Sure. Besides, I feel like I don’t know a thing about you. Talk to me, stranger. Who are you?”

Even though he’s still smiling, his gaze is direct, almost intense. You swallow down the butterflies in your stomach.

“I’m just me,” you tell him. “I’m sarcastic, I’m addicted to coffee, my job is crazed right now because of tax season, I like binging Netflix shows and playing with my niece, and—” you swallow again, a sudden surge of courage beating back your trepidation, “I like running into you.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky’s eyes soften. “I like it, too.”

You’re sure your blush is cherry-red. You look away from him; if you held his gaze any longer, you’d combust. Or explode.

“Here’s an idea,” Bucky said. “Maybe Gemma just wanted you to run into me again.”

You burst into laughter and scooch closer to elbow him in the side. “Come on!”

“I’m serious,” he says, but his eyes are dancing. He takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you against him.

Being tucked against his side with his hand drawing their customary circles on your shoulder is intoxicating. You twine your fingers together in your lap and stare out across the park. Warmth seeps through you—not just the warmth of his radiating body heat, but the warmth of contentment. Of happiness.

You sit there quietly together for what seems like a minute—or maybe an hour, you can’t tell—before you break the silence. “Do you really think that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. You can’t see his face with your head tucked against his shoulder, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “But I’m open to convincing.”

 

* * *

 

You stay at the park for another half-hour, but nothing else alarming happens. No bombers, no more unsupervised toddlers. Just chatting with Bucky, who stays with you until you sigh and wiggle out from under his arm to stretch.

“I feel like maybe I’m good now,” you tell him. “I, um… I was going to head home.”

“Already?” His face doesn’t exactly fall, but there’s a disappointment there that wrenches your gut. You reach out impulsively and pull him to his feet. Maybe he was right. Maybe Gemma was the world’s best, youngest wingman. Wing… girl? Maybe.

“If you want, you could come,” you blurt. “I was just watching tv, but—”

“I’d love to,” he interrupts. His smile is soft as he steps closer to you, his fingers wound in yours. “I’d love to.”

Bucky spends the entire train ride tracing shapes into your skin. His fingers dance along your neck until you can’t take it anymore and trap his hand in yours. When you make it back to your place, you fumble for your keys in your pocket. Bucky takes the opportunity to push down your scarf and kiss the exposed skin of your throat, teasing a surprised gasp out of you just as the key slides into the lock. He curls his free hand over yours as you open your door.

You hurry inside, leaving Bucky at the doorway as you unbutton your coat with shaking fingers. You sling it onto its customary hook and take a steadying breath before you realize Bucky still hasn’t come in. You turn to him, a questioning look on your face and a sudden sinking in your gut.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Am _I_ alright? I’m fine.” You worry the inside of your lip. What was going on? “I’m dandy. Are you… coming in?”

A slow smile spreads on his face. “I just wanted to be sure,” he says. He steps inside and peels off his coat. You swallow at the sight of the fitted shirt beneath—you can see every line of his body. Every move he makes, his shirt shifts against his muscles. _God_. You turn away to unwind your scarf, suddenly far too warm.

“May I?” Bucky murmurs from behind you.

You swallow and nod. When he takes the end of your scarf, his fingers brush against yours. His eyes crinkle as he turns you by your shoulders, still holding onto your scarf, until you’re freed and facing him again. He tosses the scarf aside; it lands on the couch behind you, but half of it is still in the air when your attention is recaptured by Bucky’s hand on your face. His thumb is rough as he traces the shape of your lips.

“You know,” he says, quite conversationally, “you’re something else.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up and kiss me, sergeant.”

“Yes, _ma’am_.”

He comes close, then pauses, his smirking mouth a hair’s breadth away. His eyes flit to yours; the pupils are blown wide open, turning his eyes dark and wanting and _god_ —you can’t help burying your hands in his hair and closing the gap between you. Bucky’s lips are warm and dry; does super healing prevent chapped lips? The thought dissolves as his stubble scrapes against your skin, but you couldn’t care less. He’s here, and this is all about you.

You drag your hands down his neck and dig your fingers into the muscles of his back. He groans and retaliates with a whimper-inducing swipe of his tongue down the column of your throat, followed with a peppering of kisses along your shoulder as he pushes at the collar of your shirt.

A dizzy laugh bursts out of you when he grabs you around the waist and pulls you off your feet, spinning you in a tight circle with his lips back at the spot at the juncture of your neck. You stumble when he sets you back down, still giggling.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Bucky Barnes,” you tell him. You take his hands before he can put them on you again and drag him to your bedroom, drinking him in with your eyes.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” he teases. He kisses you again until the back of his knees hit the bed and you both fall. You land on top of him with an _oomph_ , but he’s the one laughing now. “I guess this is better than the sidewalk.”

You prop yourself up, one hand on his chest. “I don’t hear you complaining either,” you shoot back.

“No,” he agrees, eyes shining bright. He cups your face in his hands and gazes up at you with unbridled delight. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name, but it fills you with warmth. Your happiness is too tender for the shit-eating grin you’d been aiming for; you settle for a gentle smile and a soft hand on his brow instead. Bucky turns his head and kisses your wrist.

“No,” he says again. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, his soft lips spreading into a contented smile. “You sure don’t.”


	5. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “and at some point i’ll write an epilogue where the 6 y-o gets to go hang out with some avengers while Bucky and Reader hold hands and watch” -me, 7 Oct 2018

“You know the way?”

“I looked it up again today, plus GPS exists for a reason.”

“Okay… Well, make sure you call when you get there.”

“Sarah, don’t worry, I got this!” You grin reassuringly at your sister-in-law as you swing a bouncing Gemma up in your arms. “We’ll be back by seven, and Gemma will be happy as a goose!”

“I will, I will!” Gemma chants, punching into the sky. She’s wearing her Captain America mask again, this time with a bright red dress and purple sneakers.

“Okay, okay!” Sarah laughs weakly and clings to the door as you carry Gemma off. “Well, be safe, and have fun!”

“Bye!”

You make your way to the parked rental car where Matt is finishing installing a carseat for Gemma.

“Well, it’s all set,” Matt says. He ruffles Gemma’s hair and tweaks her nose. “How’s my captain?”

“I’m great!” Gemma shrieks. She climbs from your arms into the car; Matt buckles her in while you wait to recover the hearing in your left ear.

Matt gives you a parting hug once Gemma’s strapped in and the door is shut. “Do not let her distract you out of your way,” he mutters.

“Not gonna happen,” you promise. “This isn’t Halloween.”

“Yeah, well…” Matt gives you a beady glare. “If it is… Well, if your damn boyfriend lets you get shot again, he and I are going to have _words_.”

Your cheeks redden, but you don’t have a chance to correct Matt before he leaves and Gemma’s calling for you. You hurry around to the driver’s seat and slide in.

Bucky’s not your boyfriend, not exactly… but he’s something close.

 

* * *

 

The drive to the state park upstate was supposed to be an hour and a half, but Gemma’s chattering in the backseat pushes your arrival time back by twenty minutes. Having her right there, so sweet and animated, makes you extra cautious. You don’t dare make a phone call to warn Bucky, and you pray he’ll understand.

He will. Hopefully.

By the time you pull into a parking space and shoot him a quick text, your heart is racing. Gemma’s already opening her door and clambering onto the gravel, and you quickly follow her out, scanning the path up to the park. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of the two large men ambling towards you. One of them breaks into a jog.

When Gemma sees Bucky coming towards her, she squeals in delight and bounces to meet him.

“Hey Gemma,” he says. He tosses her in the air like she weighs no more than a feather, but he catches her carefully, favoring his right arm. The metal of his left arm isn’t unfriendly, per se, but he’s still cautious.

You catch up as Gemma adjusts herself on his right shoulder with her hand in his hair. Bucky turns his eyes on you, and a fresh smile spreads on his face.

“Hey,” you say, suddenly shy.

“Hey you,” he answers. He reaches out with his free hand and squeezes yours. Your breath catches as his blue eyes sparkle at you. Has it really only been a week since you’ve seen him? It feels like forever.

Then Captain America—or Steve Rogers, rather, given the civilian clothes—joins you, and Gemma gets tossed in the air _again,_ this time even higher than before. You swallow back a sudden yelp at the sight of her silhouetted against the bright sky. If anyone can catch her, it’s Captain America.

Steve does catch her, and he swings her onto his shoulders where she’s as tall as a mountain. He ducks his head at you with a polite smile, but says nothing as he leads the way up the path. Bucky squeezes your hand, holding you fast until Steve and Gemma are out of earshot.

“So,” Bucky says. “Were you in the slow lane the whole time?”

You blush, but you can’t help but grin. “With such precious cargo? Damn straight.” You tug him ahead before your niece is out of sight; Steve Rogers might be Captain America, but he’s never been vetted as Gemma’s babysitter.

Once you make it up the path, the park opens up into a broad expanse of well-trimmed lawn. There’s an unlived-in mansion in the distance surrounded by carefully cultivated flower beds; they’re a splash of color against the treeline. Steve and Gemma are already kicking a soccer ball back and forth. She’s still learning—she has to prepare herself for every kick, but Steve is as patient as anything. Gemma cackles gleefully when she kicks the ball straight at Steve’s knees.

Bucky tugs you down onto the grass in the shade. You sit cross-legged beside him, your knees touching.

“How are you, Bucky?”

“Pretty good,” he answers. He curls his arm around your waist and tugs you closer until your head is on his shoulder. “You?”

“Glad to be off the road,” you say. “Gemma is very cute, but damn is it hard to drive while giving her enough attention.”

Bucky chuckles and tightens his arm around you. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. I think Steve’s got this.”

His shoulder is the best pillow in the world. With his arm around you and his fingers tracing their usual patterns against your arm, there’s nothing to dampen your spirits. Gemma is bouncing happily, in easy reach, and Bucky—well, Bucky is here, his free metal hand twined in yours. You’d stay here forever, if you could.

Bucky clears his throat. “So how is Gemma?”

“Sarah said she couldn’t stop talking about seeing you,” you say, smiling. “And, uh, Steve too.” You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to calling Captain America _Steve._

Bucky hums, but there’s a concerned tenor to it. You bite your lip. Is he okay?

“Sorry to bring it up but—how _are_ her parents about her now?”

Early on, you’d admitted your insecurities about how you worried he only talked to you because of Gemma, and that she was the only thing tying you two together. Since then, you rarely talked about Gemma’s powers, or how she was doing, or what her parents thought about her ‘luck’…

Now, almost a year after their first meeting, you don’t begrudge him his curiosity. He’s seen Gemma a handful of times since March. The last time was dinner at your apartment, where you’d invited Matt, Sarah, and Gemma. Sure, it was a little awkward, but Gemma’s exuberance overshadowed any lingering anxiety. But Bucky saw there, in the hour and a half you’d all been together, just how much her premonitions dominated her speech. And all his careful study had made an effect on Matt.

“I _think_ Matt’s coming around,” you hedge.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky’s tone is light, but you can tell from the tightening of his hand in yours that he’s paying strict attention. You rub your thumb against his reassuringly.

“He looks at her differently. Like… more careful. And I don’t see him arguing with her so much.” You hum, thinking. “He tries asking her why she needs things a certain way, I guess? He’s very gentle about it. Even if Sarah doesn’t get why, I think it’s rubbing off on her.”

Bucky relaxes with a sigh. “That’s really good. I was afraid… Never mind.”

You sit up enough to give him a faux-scandalized look. “Afraid _my brother_ would be an asshole when he realized he’s got a superpowered daughter? After that nice dinner where he was so reasonably friendly to you, who was involved in his sister getting _shot?_ ” Bucky has the sense to look sheepish, but you chuckle and kiss his cheek before he can apologize. “I’m sorry. You were right to worry, even if it was unfounded. For the record, if anyone ever started treating her badly, I would swing in with guns blazing.”

“That’s not a very sound plan,” he says drily. “If you’re swinging, how can you use multiple guns?”

“You can swing in a harness,” you inform him. “Two hands, done!”

He laughs bright and loud. The sound fills you with delight, and your grin is wide enough to make your cheeks ache as you gaze at him. There are those soft crinkles around his eyes that you love so much. You tuck yourself against his side to keep from kissing every one.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while,” Bucky says after a minute.

Your breath catches. “It’s only been a week, you know,” you say, suddenly shy.

“Still,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice, and you squeeze his hand in response.

“It always seems like a long time,” you admit. “A week _or_ a day.”

Bucky nudges your head towards his. You catch a glimpse of his dark eyes and wide smile before he captures your lips in a kiss. His lips are gentle, but there’s so much intent in the way he clutches your shoulder that you can tell the gentleness is just for the sake of the public. When he pulls back, you can see the promise of _later_ in his eyes.

Then your eyes sweep automatically for Gemma. She’s too busy doing pull-ups off Steve’s arm to have seen. Steve is gazing fondly at Bucky. When he catches your eye, a flush runs up your neck. Steve smiles and turns away. He angles his body so Gemma’s view of you is blocked.

You let out a breath and lay your head back on Bucky’s shoulder.

“This is nice,” you tell him. “Even if I feel a little bad for putting Steve on Gemma duty.”

Bucky snorts. “Don’t, he loves it. Do you know how little time he gets to spend with kids?”

“Well, still. She’s _my_ niece.”

Bucky pops to his feet with so much grace that you have to swallow back a sudden rush of want even as you nearly topple over. How can a man with so much muscle be so elegant?

He holds out a hand to you with a cheeky grin. “Come on then. Let’s play.”

 

* * *

 

The game of tag ends when Bucky and Gemma team up. Steve lets Gemma tackle him to the ground. She climbs on top of him with a whoop. Steve groans loudly, but you can see the amusement in his face. You can’t help but laugh, even though it slows you down.

Bucky comes out of nowhere and sweeps you into his arms. You screech, and then you dissolve back into laughter. You loop your arms around Bucky’s neck as he adjusts his grip under your knees.

“You sneak!” you exclaim, lightly slapping his chest. “I guess you won.”

“I’ve got my girl,” Bucky says, smiling. “Of course I won.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking around to the end! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you had as much fun reading ☺
> 
> P.S. If anyone does dress up at the Winter Soldier for Halloween... send pics XD


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